The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I won’t marry Finley,” she said as soon as the hatch was closed. “Never.”

  Her father nodded. “I don’t know what happened to him,” he said. “But he clearly can’t marry you now.”

  Angela jabbed a finger at him. “Do you know he was abusing some of the stewards before we wound up”—she waved a hand at the bulkhead—“here?”

  “No,” her father said. He sighed. “But, after everything else, it really wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “And yet you were prepared to marry me off to him,” Angela said, twisting the knife as hard as she could. Did he have no comforting words to offer? “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that I could save the family,” her father said. He sounded tired, too tired to feel much of anything. “Right now, I don’t even know if we’ll get out.” He shook his head. “Someone back home may have set us up to die out here.”

  Angela swallowed. “Who?”

  “Good question,” her father said. “The family has enemies.”

  “So do some of the other guests,” Angela pointed out. “We’re not the only ones with enemies.”

  She smiled, humorlessly. One of the older men on the ship, a braggart she couldn’t stand, had chatted for hours about the number of people he’d crushed on his climb to the top. One of his victims might want revenge. Destroying Supreme would be a little bit excessive, but there were so many rich and powerful people on the cruise liner that it would be hard to establish a motive. Any investigators would presumably focus on her family’s enemies first.

  “True,” her father said. “But does it change the final outcome?”

  Angela shook her head. “No.”

  Her father sighed. “For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry,” he said. “I believed . . . I believed that you would not have to remain with him, after the corporation had been put on firmer ground.”

  “I might not have survived,” Angela said. She remembered Carla’s words and shivered. “I might not have lasted ten years.”

  Or however long it took, she added silently.

  “I wish I’d known,” her father admitted.

  “And if you had,” Angela demanded, “would you have done it anyway?” Her voice rose. “Or would you have betrothed Nancy to him, if I’d run away? Or found someone else from our tangled family tree?”

  “Your sister is too young to get married,” her father snapped. “And do you really think a betrothal would be enough to satisfy his family?”

  Angela shrugged. It might just have been enough, if ironclad guarantees had been made and sealed. But somehow she doubted it would have worked for very long.

  “I won’t marry him,” she said. She hoped her father would get the message. Right now, she didn’t much care if she had to live on the streets. “You can use this . . . you can make them uphold their side of the bargain anyway, if it means keeping the scandal buried.”

  Her father’s lips twitched. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

  “Yeah,” Angela said. “I won’t let this get swept under the rug. I’ll file a formal complaint when we get back home, unless they agree to exile Finley and ensure no one else has to marry him to save the family.”

  She met his eyes, daring him to defy her. Carla could be buried under a mountain of lawyers and fabricated complaints if she dared to bring a charge against a person as well connected as Finley, but Angela held a far higher rank. No one could bury her charges, not when she was the one making them. There would be a public inquest, followed by the trial of the century. And Finley’s family would be crucified by high society, not for allowing him to indulge his tastes—suddenly, some of the more unpleasant rumors she’d heard sounded alarmingly plausible—but for being caught.

  And we might not be the only ones in financial trouble, she thought. This could bring the whole structure crumbling down.

  “I’ve spoken to his . . . minders,” her father said. “We will come to an agreement.”

  “A satisfactory agreement,” Angela pressed. She’d never dared speak so sharply to her father before, but . . . but this was different. “One that ensures Finley gets tarred and feathered as well as exiled.”

  “You might have to settle for exile,” her father said. “They’ll want to bury the scandal, Angela.”

  “Of course they will,” Angela said. “I want him exiled with no hope of return. Dump him on a penal world or somewhere.”

  Her father gave her a sharp look. “Do you think they’d go for it?”

  “I don’t care,” Angela hissed. “That’s my price for keeping my mouth firmly shut!”

  “Really?”

  Angela took a breath. “He tried to rape me, Father,” she said. “He would have killed me if he hadn’t been stopped. I’m not feeling forgiving.”

  Her father looked down at the deck. “I understand,” he said. “And yes, I will use this to claw as many concessions out of his family as I can. But we have to give them some hope that the scandal will be buried, or they’ll refuse to cooperate with us.”

  “And then the family dies,” Angela said. “Tell me, is it old age that makes you so detached, Father, or is it the simple fact that you spent next to no time with us when we were kids?”

  Her father’s face flickered with anger. “Is it youth that makes you so convinced that the universe can be organized to suit yourself or merely a refusal to face simple facts?”

  Angela flushed. “I—”

  Her father held up a hand, cutting her off. “We can and we will use this,” he said. “But we cannot crush him with all of our might.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that, then, won’t I?” Angela took a breath, forcing herself to step back. “It won’t be enough.”

  “It never is,” her father said. “But is your revenge worth the destruction of millions of lives?”

  Angela sighed. “No.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re finally growing up,” her father said. He gave her a faint smile. “And we might all still die here anyway.”

  “Maybe,” Angela said.

  She wondered, suddenly, what he’d say if she decided she wanted to marry Matt. She suspected he wouldn’t be pleased. Matt was young and healthy, but he hadn’t done much with his life. He was suitable as a lover, she supposed, yet he couldn’t marry her. What achievements did he bring to the family? What role could he play in their future? Her father would sooner have her married off to Captain VanGundy than a mere steward.

  “I’ll choose my future husband,” she said firmly. “And you won’t choose anyone else for me.”

  Her father nodded, very slowly. “Very well,” he said. “But I may send a name or two your way.”

  “No,” Angela said. She sighed. “Where’s Mother?”

  “She’s up with some of her friends, trying to keep them occupied,” her father said. “I thought it better not to tell her what happened.”

  Angela glowered at him, but she had to admit he had a point. Her mother would slip into overprotective mode and insist on following Angela everywhere. Or worse.

  “Thanks,” she said finally. “You should get her to visit Nancy, when she wakes up.”

  “I didn’t tell her about that either,” her father said. “I will, later.”

  “Is there anyone in this family who tells everyone everything?”

  Her father smiled thinly. “We were taught to keep secrets in my day,” he said. “And what you kept to yourself might prove decisive, if things were different.”

  “I see,” Angela said. “But . . . can I ask you a question?”

  “If you must,” her father said. “I don’t guarantee to answer, of course.”

  “Of course,” Angela echoed. “What is Marie?”

  “She’s your governess,” her father said. “Don’t you know that after ten years?”

  Angela shook her head. “I thought I knew her,” she said. “And now . . . she’s like a different person. What is she?”

  Her father met her eyes. “
Many things,” he said. “She was a trained SF operator. She retired before the war. I offered her a very long-term contract to serve as your governess.”

  “Marie was a soldier?”

  “One of the best,” her father confirmed.

  “Impossible,” Angela said. She tried to square her image of the fussy governess with a soldier splashing through mud on a foreign world and couldn’t. And yet . . . Marie’s new personality was far more military. “She . . . she took a job with us?”

  “You needed someone special,” her father told her. “You were old enough to dress yourself—”

  “I should hope so,” Angela interrupted. “I could even brush my teeth and wash my face without help!”

  “But you did need a great deal of nagging,” her father said. “You needed someone who could serve as a bodyguard if necessary, as well as an emergency medical corpsman and a dozen other functions. And also someone who could hide her true nature behind a bland mask. Marie was extremely well qualified for her role. You wouldn’t think, if you looked at her, that she holds several records in the SF community. I think only recently she lost the shooting record.”

  Angela stared at him. “And she gave it up to babysit me?”

  “She did raise concerns about your behavior,” her father admitted. “There were times when I considered letting her have her way. But . . . I thought it would be better for you to work your way into adulthood yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Angela said dryly. She had no idea how a former Special Forces operative would raise a child, but she doubted she’d enjoy it. Nine-mile forced marches before breakfast, no doubt. And then push-ups at all hours of the day. “I . . . I never thought of her as being dangerous.”

  “She could kick your ass with both hands tied behind her back,” her father said. He pointed a finger at her. “If nothing else, understand this: you are a very poor judge of character.”

  “I am not,” Angela protested.

  Her father ignored her. “That isn’t surprising. You were raised in a sheltered environment, perhaps too sheltered. You were never in any real danger until now. Everyone you met knew who you were. In hindsight, we did you no favors. Perhaps I should have forced you to work harder.”

  Angela swallowed. “Father . . .”

  “If we get out of this . . . this lobster pot, you will learn the ropes,” her father said. “You never know just what will happen in the future.”

  “If we get out, I’m going to buy a starship and vanish,” Angela said. She wasn’t entirely serious. “Perhaps I’ll take Marie with me.”

  “That would be a very good idea,” her father said. He turned to the hatch. “And I suggest you stay with her for the time being too. She’ll keep you busy.”

  “I know,” Angela said. “It keeps me from thinking.”

  Her father gave her a pointed look but said nothing. Instead, he pushed the door open and led the way into the next room. Two more bodies, both unmarked, lay on the deck. Marie was bending over one of them, looking worried. It was difficult to believe she’d ever been a soldier.

  And then she turned around. Her eyes were hard.

  Suddenly Angela believed every word.

  “Antimatter pods?”

  “Yes, sir,” Slater said. “I managed to pry loose an engineering team. They confirmed the presence of antimatter.”

  Paul rubbed his forehead. “Any word on why the magnetic bubbles remained active?”

  “Conrad believes that the flickers were careful not to drain the bubbles,” Slater said. “The antimatter explosion might be too much for them to handle.”

  “Perhaps,” Paul said. He looked down at the latest set of handwritten notes. A string of deaths on Supreme, unexplained deaths. And more systems failures, all seemingly random. “Do you think it might kill them?”

  “Unknown,” Slater said. “Our sensors, such as they are, can’t even perceive them.”

  Paul nodded. They had counted over four hundred starships within the distortion, all dead. As far as anyone could tell, the only active vessel was Supreme herself. There was no piece of alien technology within detection range, nothing maintaining the energy storms and blocking escape. His ship’s power seemed to be leeching away into nothingness. If he hadn’t watched Nancy trying to commune with the flickers, he would have thought it something natural to this unnatural region of space.

  But that means there’s nothing to blow up, he thought. And nothing to fight, even if our weapons were online.

  “Rig up an explosive charge on the alien craft,” he ordered. Antimatter was dangerous. The Royal Navy didn’t carry antimatter warheads outside wartime, just in case of an accidental detonation. A nuke would damage a ship, if one could be made to detonate inside the vessel, but an antimatter warhead would vaporize it. “And make sure the system is as primitive as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slater said. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  Paul smiled, fighting down a yawn. “Do you believe that anything can be recovered from the alien ship?”

  “Beyond a couple more bodies?” Slater asked. “I don’t think so. Too much of their tech appears to be organic in nature rather than mechanical. It’s just too different from ours for us to comprehend easily. We should probably send missions to the other alien ships, the ones with configurations more like ours. They might be easier to comprehend.”

  “If we have time,” Paul said. He yawned. “Make sure you get some sleep.”

  “And you,” Slater said. “Conrad was looking tired too. Perhaps I should cuff him to the bed.”

  “It might be a good idea,” Paul said. He couldn’t risk allowing his engineers to get too tired. Their work was delicate enough at the best of times. “Just be sure you have someone watching him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slater said. “And you too, sir.”

  “If someone is willing to spot me,” Paul said. He sighed. “Good luck.”

  He watched Slater go, feeling torn. Two days in the distortion and his ship and crew were already coming apart at the seams. Gladys had lasted longer, but . . . the flickers might have learned from their experience. Supreme might have less time than Paul dared to hope.

  The voices buzzed in his ear again. He told them to go away.

  They didn’t listen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Don’t go,” Angela said.

  Matt sighed. He’d come to her straight after decontamination and debriefing, although he hadn’t been sure what to expect. Angela had led him into one of the bedrooms in her stateroom, pinned him to the bed, and made love to him with a terrifying intensity that surprised him. Afterwards, they had drifted off together, holding each other tightly. There had been no nightmares.

  “I have to go,” he said. He had his duty. “Should I escort you down to Sickbay?”

  “Marie said she’d come for me at 1000,” Angela said. She glanced at her wristcom automatically, then frowned. “What time is it?”

  “Oh-eight-thirty,” Matt said. He wiped himself down, then reached for his pants. “You have another hour to sleep, if you want it.”

  “I don’t,” Angela said. She swung her long legs over the side of the bed and stood. “Take me to Sickbay now, if you please.”

  Matt smiled. “Are you going to get dressed first?”

  Angela looked down, as if she were surprised by her nakedness. “I suppose I should,” she said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  More like ten hours, Matt thought. She seemed to be a different person now, colder and harder and yet needy. Or maybe even longer.

  Angela surprised him. She was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers in fifteen minutes. She hadn’t bothered to do her face, but she still looked striking. The emergency lighting flickered alarmingly as they headed for the hatch—he touched his belt, just to make sure the flashlight was still there—and walked into the darkened corridor. The passageway felt reassuringly familiar, shadows and all, after the eerie alien ship.

  A handful of passengers were scrubbi
ng the decks as the two passed, several more carrying bagged-up bodies to the storage compartments. None of the guests looked particularly happy, Matt noted, but they had to work if they wanted to be fed. The stewards might joke about fending off thousands of lawsuits when they returned home, yet it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t return home. Matt had been told, in confidence, that some of the food was rotting faster than it should. He didn’t like the implications at all.

  He took Angela’s arm as they stepped through a hatch—two security guards stood there, carrying rifles at the ready—and down the companionway into the lower decks. Someone had rigged up additional lighting, but he still took great care as they made their way down to Sickbay. The companionway’s emergency lighting was so dim it might well not have been there at all. He had to admit, privately, that the bioluminescent light on the alien vessel was a neat solution. Humanity might want to copy it for future starships, if they ever returned home.

  The shadows grew longer as they reached the Sickbay hatch. A line of passengers stood there, waiting for a chance to see the doctor. They weren’t complaining, something that worried Matt more than he cared to admit. The guests were wealthy and powerful individuals, men and women who rarely had to wait for anything. And yet, they were just . . . waiting. Perhaps they were too stunned by their situation to put up a fight.

  Or perhaps they’re being drained, he thought. The passengers looked . . . degraded. Their clothes were filthy; their bodies smelled. Only three days had elapsed since Supreme passed through the distortion, and her interior looked like a refugee camp. They might not have the strength to argue with anyone.

  He nodded to the guards on duty, then opened the hatch. Angela followed him in, looking around with interest. Marie was working on an injured man, binding up his arm. Two more wounded sat on the deck, their hands tied behind their backs. Matt guessed they’d been fighting on the lower decks, then arrested by security officers. So many people had been arrested over the last couple of days that the brig had to be overflowing. It was rare to use even two or three of the cells on a normal voyage. No wonder the guards looked worn.